His Master's Voice
by Suave Boogie
Summary: This was his promise. This was his beautiful destiny... [A Zuko oneshot.]


_Hehe. After it seemed my other little one-shot drabble was taken well, I decided to do another... albeit, a little differently.

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**His Master's Voice**

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_Go away._

He was on the fields again. They were painted in greens, in lights, in wind. Everything was open. Everything was beautiful. Everything was just for him, made for him, open for him. The world was his canvas, and he was a wet brush, painting a picture everywhere he went.

It was a beautiful picture.

_You are a disgrace._

His father was there. The prince smiled, his heart taking heed into the winds that bore his breath away. His idol, his image, his goal. His father was there, and he was smiling at him. The young prince captured that smile and stored it away into his mind to dwell for eternity. It was meant just for _him_.

Just for him and no one else.

_You are weak._

He placed his hand on the prince's shoulder. The boy felt its strength, its warmth, and its promise. That's what _he_ would be someday. He would be on this field again, and his father would be old, and he would be strong. And he would place his hand on his father just like this, and tell him how much that day long ago meant to him, when his father smiled at him at this very place.

And he would have his children there, and they would see the prince--no, the Lord--and want to be like him. And the prince felt his heart swell and it swelled so much it spilled over and he smiled. His smile caught the time, the wind, and the splays of light of that day and put them all to shame under its wing. This was his promise.

This was his beautiful destiny.

_Go away._

He would lead his people. They would adore him and he would protect them and give them his love as their ruler. He would do the right, the just, and the comfortably strict. He would raise his hand and the soldiers would raise their hand, and he would be honored and loved by all. They would be proud of him, proud of all the days and nights he spent in the dark places training in the night, spilling fire and drawing art with his weapons.

Then it would all be evident, as he stood there on his Nation, over the world.

To the world, he would be _something_.

_You disgrace me._

And then it all came down around him, and the young prince was swept away in the torrent that roared and devoured him by one sliver of his soul at a time.

The day that the crows came and picked away at his humiliation, leaving him nothing but dried carrion in his father's eyes.

In _everyone's_ eyes.

_Leave me._

Surely his father wouldn't allow such a thing?

Surely his father would not throw these men to the dogs of war?

Fresh meat for an old slaughter?

Tender flesh to a rusty blade?

The days and nights he pined for wisdom, the days and nights he stayed awake and stewed and brewed in his thoughts of his future. The days and nights he felt the pressure and the weight beginning to build and colonize on his shoulders, his back. The days he spent wanting to know how it all fell together and where and when _he_ fit in.

So he went into that chamber, and he listened to the plans. The war was real enough to him; it was a dark shroud over a newly lit candle. But it was far away, so very far away. It was not meant for him just yet. He was just an observer in a coliseum of millions.

But when the dice was cast, and when he foresaw the fates of men begin to fall like flies in the plains of battle, he spoke up.

Surely his father would love him for saving their people?

_You have no honor._

He would win the duel, and everyone would watch him do it. He would win their love and his father's pride. He would earn it, he had sought it, and he would receive it that day. Here, in front of everyone, he would shine like a newly born star. He would be recognized as more than a golden fly in a tangled web.

That was, until...

When he looked into his father's eyes, the earth flipped upside down. His breath was stolen by chill fingers as they clamored down his throat. His mind was torn asunder by shallow questions that seemed so innocent, so honest, and yet so lost in that fiery room.

Why you?

He has disgraced his father. It was a knife, deep into his soul. His heart bled, from confusion and disbelief. It bled, and the red of it formed around him until it consumed him entirely and he couldn't _breathe_.

Did I disgrace you?

He could not fight his father. It was everything against everything he had been. Everything is lost in Everything. It amounts to Nothing.

And that very spaceless thing settled down upon the dueling ring. It caused some unforeseen chill to travel down the prince's limbs.

I cannot fight you.

_You will fight me._

Everything was shattering, slowly, and each shard buried itself into the prince's flesh and burrowed deeper still. He fell to his knees. It was wrong. It wasn't mean to be.

I can't win!

His father would fight him here and here he would be humiliated by him. He could see their faces now, scorn, contempt, laughing at him in his defeat.

Surely this was jest.

_I will show you suffering._

He refused. Again he refused. He refused and in his mind everything turned out okay, and everything was forgotten and he was still an untouched, unhindered star.

That was not how it was.

_Surely_ his father would change his mind.

He felt the tears flowing, molten lava creasing down his face. They burned; they hurt like no bodily thing ever could. They burned into his cheeks, immeasurable and pulsating. Everyone could see them.

He was crying.

And everyone could see him do it. He begged for mercy, his voice far away. It no longer belonged to him. It was a plea from his soul, deep down, that still wanted it all to be a dream.

_I will show you honor._

Everything became nothing around him. It all went away. And he saw the flame come, like a comet hurtling towards some unsuspecting thing. It came, in all the ferocity of something wild and wicked, something unquenchable.

Something evil.

It roared at him, like it was alive, a rush of heat, of fire, of hate, of sorrow. It ate at the air, and when it hit him, it ate at _him_.

It clawed at his face, ripping at his skin, tearing his soul apart like a lame rabbit to the starving wolves. It hissed and spat in his ear, in his eyes, an ultimate disgrace.

So far away. So close.

He cried out, in pain, in horror, in dismay...

In sadness.

Still it spat at him and whisked away, leaving not itself but everything else.

The agony wrapped itself around his mind and lashed uneven stripes into his being. The fire that had once been his ally, his breath, his spirit, fell away into ashes. There was nothing, nothing left but the inferno on his face. Everything else was cold inside of him. Everything inside him was _dead_ and yet he still _breathed_.

He felt the pressure in his chest. All eyes on him. He couldn't see, couldn't move. Everything was black. Everything was red.

The colors of honor were all but gone from his world.

_You are exiled._

And even still, years later, the prince stood on his ship looking out over the sea. The night wind lightly pulled at his frame, stroking his aura gently. The water moved silently under the gaze of the moon, the sun forgotten in its splendor.

And even as Zuko stood there, remembering the fire of that day, its signature framed evidently on his face...

He couldn't help but remember that very same hand that spat its acid at him, that sent him away into the bowels of the world to be ravaged by all unmerciful men...

...Had been the same hand that had touched his shoulder so gently, so long ago.

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And somewhere, still, on that field, lay his dreams and his hopes.

Somewhere, still, on that field, the ghost of a little prince still played.

Somewhere his heart still beat, keeping him alive.

Somewhere, on that day, lost in time.

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**FIN_

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_...I'm not sniffling... what would give you that idea? -Sniffle.-_


End file.
